


the golden hour

by fortyfive_rpm (2davidbeckham3)



Category: The Rolling Stones
Genre: Additional Characters to be added, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Inspired by Yesterday (film), Keith Richards POV, M/M, Melodrama, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24783409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2davidbeckham3/pseuds/fortyfive_rpm
Summary: A successful business man with memories of a different life and a record store owner that wants to be where the music is. The formula, somehow, still equals The Rolling Stones. It's alchemy.
Relationships: Mick Jagger/Keith Richards
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	the golden hour

**Author's Note:**

> Slight Brian Jones bashing ahead, but, like, this AU's version of Brian Jones. It'll all make sense in the end, I promise.
> 
> Not beta read!

The sound of tinkling bells pulls Keith from his work-induced stupor. There’s a crick in his neck, evidence that he’s been cleaning vinyl for far too long. He spares a glare at the dusty Hall and Oates record in front of him, cursing the previous owner’s neglect, before surveying who entered the previously empty store. 

Keith’s brows furrow at the sight of a suit, and, thankfully, the customer is already searching through some blues records to notice. Not many people usually come into the store at two o’clock on a weekday, especially those that looked like they stepped straight out of Savile Road. His surprise quickly fades into indifference, happy to not have to kick out school-aged kids for hiding in the store while skipping class. Keith turns back to the task at hand with a forceful shrug, tossing “Maneater” off to the side; he’d rather put that particular record in the bargain bin instead of sacrificing a week of sleep to constant muscle pain. 

He’s fighting with a stack of generic paper sleeves when he hears someone in front of him clear their throat. Keith looks up with a jolt, his lips twisting into a grimace when the movement jostles his shoulder. “Sorry about that,” he bites out, scrambling to shuffle the various stacks he’s compiled off to the side. The pained grimace on his face contorts into a frustrated glower when the rebellious white sleeves skitter off the counter. “Got everythin’ y’needed?” Keith mumbles, distracted, the words running into each other betraying his frustration. 

The man’s response comes out low and slow, something akin to confusion dripping from every syllable. “I think so.”

The genuine response finally drags Keith’s gaze away from the mess he’s made back to the customer-in-waiting. There’s an itch at the back of his skull, a feeble twinge of familiarity, evidence of his neurons spurring into action. It’s a faint type of recognition, like the way he’s familiar with the faces of the adverts in the Tube, but concrete, nonetheless. Keith knows this man. “Have I seen you somewhere before?” 

The man’s shoulder sag with unmistakable relief. “I went to Wentworth Primary,” he replies, pursed lips curling into the beginnings of a sheepish grin. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes, still tight with apprehension. “I’m Mick, er, Michael, Jagger.”

They used to be friends, not close, but friends, nevertheless. And, although their bond was forged with the tenuous threads of scraped knees and bicycle races, Keith’s mildly unsettled about almost forgetting someone he used to be friends with, even if it was decades ago in primary school. “Keith Richards. We used to play together.”

“You moved.” It’s not an accusation - it's years too late for that - it's a question framed as an uncertain statement. 

Keith nods. “I did.” It’s a simple, straightforward answer - that’s what happens in life, people move and carry on. Not that it was in his control at eight years old. Yet, his own answer does little to assuage his own unease, inexplicably jarred by what he perceives as his former friend’s uncharacteristic, but valid, nervousness. Though, it’s hard to accurately gauge someone’s mood after not speaking to them for decades.

Feeling the conversation to peter out into an awkward end, Keith reaches over to grab the records on the counter to wrap the transaction that brought them together in the first place. It doesn't help, not when he realizes that Mick's picked out _Rockin’ at the Hops_ and _The Best of Muddy Waters._

The words are out of Keith’s mouth before he can stop them. "These’re the original Chess Records pressings, I didn't even know we had ‘em." That's the last time he'll let the college students process the new records; Keith told them to pull out any records they thought were interesting, for themselves and set aside any blues records for him. 

Keith raises his hand to rub at the sore spot in his neck in a futile attempt to play off his exclamation, though the gesture is unnecessary since Mick’s focused on the displays lining the counter. 

“You, uh, you a fan of Muddy?” It’s not the most subtle of segues, but it gets the job done.

Keith has another moment of regret after seeing Mick wince, his attention forcefully drawn away from the _Still Fools_ single announcement that he’s been frowning at like it’s personally offended him. Though, the emotion is quick to pass; it’s not every day that he meets someone with a similar music taste as him that’s not some pretentious Uni student who sneers at the mere mention of anything ‘mainstream.’ 

“Oh,” A genuine grin tugs at the corner of Mick’s lips, the beginnings of a warm expression that’s slow to eclipse his previous downturn in mood. “I love Muddy.” 

Keith nods in response. “That’s good t’hear. I’m glad these’ll be goin’ to a good home, then.” They’re back to awkward pleasantries now, but it makes the transaction much easier to conclude - it’s not every day customers come in and make triple digit purchases, let alone for just two records. 

Not wanting to let the silence sit, Keith scans the records as expediently as possible, sending a mental thanks to his past self for moving the jar of record spiders behind the counter. He looks up to announce the total, only to be faced with a still-distracted Mick’s outstretched arm, credit card in hand.

A gamut of mixed emotions twist at Keith’s stomach once he notices which advert captured Mick’s attention again. Curiosity gets the better of him. “Not a fan of Still Fools?” His endeavor to continue a semblance of a would-be-casual exchange fails. Somehow, between planning and execution, Keith’s customer service smile twists into a sarcastic smirk. “I knew the guitarist, y’know.”

When Mick looks up to meet his gaze, strangely, he doesn’t look surprised. “Oh yeah?” The words come out in a slow drawl, prodding. There’s an odd, undecipherable look on his face. “Peter Green?” Mick hesitates between the first and last names, almost as if forcing the name out. 

Keith snorts. “No.” Maybe he should be more annoyed at this stranger’s mercurial moods rather than entertaining them, but it’s surprisingly easy to take Mick’s actions in stride rather than to challenge them. Not to mention the fact that little pressed his buttons more than— “Brian Jones. I played guitar with him.” He rolls his eyes. Customer service be damned. “Got Jeff Beck t’be the guitarist of his first band, instead.” It’s hard to not still be bitter, even after the years - and multiple bands - between them.

Mick lets Keith stew a bit before pressing. “You play guitar?”

Keith barely bites back another snort, giving Mick a narrowed glare instead. “Yeah,” is his curt reply before turning to noisily bag the records in an effort to cut the conversation. His patience only affords him so much. 

“I play the harp,” Mick steamrolls either oblivious or completely ignoring Keith’s obvious hint. “Maybe we can jam sometime.”

The tone makes Keith look up from where he’s wrestling to fold the receipt in the bag. It’s a brazen, confident proposition, nothing like Mick’s meek introduction from before.

Mick nods towards the records in Keith’s hands. “You can come over and listen to them, too.”

It’s a poorly disguised bribe. He shouldn’t rise to the bait. 

There’s a challenging glimmer in Mick’s eye—

“Sure,” Keith says. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! So this is my first Rolling Stones fic, in this realm, though not my first time writing the Stones. I used to rp as Keith Richards way back when (if anyone remembers im-keith-richards & thisiskeithrichards on tumblr, hello, it is me). I never thought I'd write for this fandom again, but here we are! Premise of this story is heavily AU - spoiler alert - Imagine 1969 mullet! Keith and LSE grad! Mick meeting in the era of internet and smart phones. Mick is the only one that remembers them being the Stones a la Yesterday movie and Keith knows nothing, but the reality that he's lived. Oddly, an everybody lives AU and very much self-indulgent.
> 
> I don't know what else to say now because I have to go to work in the morning and I am up late posting this, but !!!! I hope you all enjoyed this! 
> 
> _Still Fools_ band name inspired from Muddy Waters' song "Still a Fool."  
> 
> 
> disclaimer: might edit more in the future because of pacing issues, though, we'll see! (jun. 18, 2020)


End file.
